To Kilt A Man
by A. Lee
Summary: It all started with that blasted chair. The story of how Parker and Hardison got in Eliot's pants by getting him into a kilt.


It all started with a chair. Not just any chair, though – Hardison's chair.

You see, Hardison's chair was special – he'd had it custom-made. It was specifically designed to comfortably accommodate his tall frame (which not all chairs could), cushy enough so he could sit in it for eight hours at a time without his butt falling asleep, but not pleasant to lull him to sleep in the middle of something important. (That'd happened with his old chair – so comfortable he could sleep through his raid leader's obnoxiously loud ventrillo chat during a heroic.)

It was, in short, the perfect chair.

Until Eliot broke it.

"I said I'm sorry, man! What more do you want?"

"Sorry? You're sorry? Is sorry going to bring back my chair? Is it? Is saying sorry going to-"

"I'll just fix it or something."

"Do I- Do I want a chair that's all lumpy because you fixed it wrong? Do I even want to go anywhere near a chair you broke while having sex? That's just- That's just _nasty_."

"For the last time, I wasn't having sex!"

"Well, if that wasn't sex then I don't even want to know what else you were doing with a black dildo and mango pudding-"

"I'll buy you a new one," Eliot hastens to add before Hardison can air any more of his dirty laundry.

"You think you can just walk into a store and buy me a new chair? This chair was custom-made, man. Irreplaceable." Hardison shakes his head, the perfect picture of disbelief.

"Well, then what do you want me to do?"

"I want to get even, man, what else?"

"I don't exactly have a super-special chair you can break."

"I want to destroy your dignity. I want abject humiliation. I want …" Hardison trails off, gesticulates wildly as if at loss for words, then says, "I want you to wear a kilt."

--

Eliot objected, of course. Maintained that a chair wasn't worth it. Told Hardison he could get a chair from anywhere. Told Hardison he was being perverse. ("You mean perverted, darling," Sophie had commented. "_Perverse_ means contrary.")

Eliot tried to simply replace the chair.

If only it were that simple.

It turned out that Hardison's chair was custom-fitted in more ways than one. Despite appearing like any other chair, it was a modern marvel involving hand-carved wood fitted together with each individual piece blessed and consecrated with holy water. (Hardison was weird.) The cushions were hand-sewn by children in Bolivia or some such shit with the cloth coming from organically-fed sheep. The proportions of the chair were carefully calculated after measurements had been taken for Hardison's height, breadth, weight, stature, inseam, outseam, shoe size, and ring size. Hardison? Was really weird.

But Eliot had his dignity to maintain, the self-same dignity Hardison seemed so intent on destroying. He didn't just object, he _strenuously_ objected for all of eight days.

"Where am I supposed to get a kilt?" he'd asked at one point.

"The only difference between a kilt and a skirt is that you wear underwear under one and not the other," Sophie had remarked over her very posh pudding. (Just what he needed, Eliot thought resentfully.) "I'm sure I have an old skirt somewhere you could borrow," she had continued with a smirk.

"Why do you want to see me in a kilt?" he'd asked three days later.

"Who wouldn't want to see you in a kilt?" Parker had said, from nowhere. "Kilts are hot. And more accessible."

Eliot … didn't really know where to go with that. Neither did Hardison, from the look on his face. Sophie intervened gracefully to change the subject.

"How long do I need to wear this kilt?" Eliot finally asked, when Hardison wouldn't shut up about the stupid chair and kept on spreading this stupid story about his kinky sex in the chair (which was a lie, dammit).

"A full day, man. Twenty-four hours. Think you're man enough for that?"

And so that's how Eliot finally gave in and went to a costume shop so he could find an actual kilt and do it properly. (No way was he wearing one of Sophie's skirts.)

He finally showed up to the office one Friday (casual Fridays, don't you know?) in full kilt regalia, and grunted, "Are you happy now?"

Hardison laughed. Hardison took pictures. Hardison did not stop teasing him all day. Hardison, it seemed, it was _more_ than happy.

Eliot bore it, though he came very close to strangling Hardison once or twice. He took consolation in the look on Hardison's face when Parker gave him an appraising look and then asked Hardison his stance on threesomes. And who knew, but apparently Sophie had a thing for kilts – maybe it had something to do with being British.

(Nate just gave them all his long-suffering look that said, "Am I surrounded by kindergarteners?" and ignored their antics.)

The day seemed to last forever, but when it was finally the end of the day, when he thought he was done with this itchy, starchy, tartan skirt rubbing against his stuff, Hardison gave him this ridiculous look and said, "What, you thought that wearing that fine kilt in the privacy of Nate's apartment was all you would need to do?"

"What do you mean?" Eliot asked suspiciously.

"We're going clubbing!" Parker said. "Whee!"

--

Now, Eliot had never been one for the clubs, not unless he was working as a bodyguard (rare) or pretending to be a bouncer (rarer). According to one of his many ex-girlfriends, his entire "vibe" was less "urban" and more "outdoorsy," whatever that meant. Basically, whenever he was at a club, he looked out of place to everyone.

Eliot didn't like clubs much on the best of days (too many people, too loud, too dark – he could think of three different ways to kill someone with his bare hands without anybody noticing and fourteen more if he had time to plan), but he soon learned that going to one in a kilt was worse.

First, of course, was the fact that this club (he'd forgotten the name) was packed. He hadn't been stuck between so many sweaty bodies since the evacuation of [classified], and at least then he'd been decently clothed. Having nothing more than starchy plaid between his crotch and grinding women was better in theory than in practice. The sweltering heat meant the tartan only itched more, and the close quarters meant any stimulation going on was getting increasingly uncomfortable.

And of course, girls kept on squealing over his kilt. Who'd ever thought a kilt would get you more girls (and girls was what they were, girls who'd probably gotten ahold of their older sisters' fake ids). The women that fit his type were probably all sitting at the bar and laughing at him.

It didn't help that Parker and Hardison spent the whole night dancing with each other (honestly, there were some things he didn't need to see because that was what people had invented bedrooms for), while he kept on having to turn away dance partners who'd noticed he was commando and were getting a little too frisky.

It was like he was some sort of wilting virgin, turning away the big, scary college girls who just wanted their night of fun. If he weren't in this ridiculous getup, if he weren't in a bad mood already, he might appreciate all the attention.

As it was, he slipped away after a few hours to grab a breather in the cooler hallway. Even then, he had to wend his way past a petite Asian girl making out with a white boy (they didn't look like they could be older than 20, the kids were just getting younger and younger these days), another room blasting eighties' music, and a bouncer throwing out two too-drunk-for-their-own-good college students.

Finally, he had a moment and some space to himself, as he smoothed his kilt self-consciously. Closing his eyes, he half-wondered what had possessed him to come out here when he could be in a bar in normal clothes picking up some chicks for the night. Maybe he should just leave now, change into some normal clothes, and salvage the night with some hot-and-heavy sex with-

"Aw, are you having a bad time?" a voice whispered into his ear.

Eliot's eyes snapped open, his first instinct to punch first and ask questions later. His brain caught up with his instincts two seconds later, reminding him very clearly and carefully that the voice belonged to Parker and punching Parker would be a bad idea. (Parker was crazy. Dealing with crazy people was like tickling sleeping dinosaurs. They could do anything.)

He controlled the urge to punch, and looked over Parker, who stood just a touch too close. She half-smiled as she leaned back, acknowledging his once-over, Hardison smoking a few feet behind her.

"Are we done here?" he growled at Hardison. "Have you had a good laugh? Can I go home now?"

"Not until you have fun," Parker declared. "Party-pooper."

"I'm in a hot, packed nightclub surrounded by sweaty people I don't know, I have been groped by seven girls and two guys and I think the tartan is giving my dick a rash."

"Aw, do you want me to kiss it better?" Parker smirked. Then licked her lips.

Eliot's brain sputtered to a halt. "Wha- H- But-"

"You're thinking too much." Without warning, Parker leaned in and kissed him hard. There was tongue, teeth, and just a hint of vodka on her breath. She didn't even have the decency to seem out-of-breath when she was done. "Feel better?"

Eliot usually prided himself on being smooth, but it seemed like Parker (and by extension, Hardison, who was coolly looking on) had shorted some key wires in his brain. "Uh …" was all he could muster.

"Now," Parker continued. "Hardison says there's an empty alleyway behind this place, and I want sex, so I expect to see you both there in five."

And with that, she had disappeared back into the crowd.

"What the hell?" Eliot managed. "You two … you two are crazy."

"Don't even pull that, man," Hardison laughed. "You were having sex with someone in _my_ chair with _pudding_ and a _dildo_. You can't pretend you're not into kinky exhibitionist shit. What's a threesome in an alleyway compared to that?"

"Was this whole kilt thing some way to get into my pants?" Because there were easier ways to do so that didn't involve public humiliation.

"Naw, the club thing was to get into your pants. The kilt thing's to humiliate you because you broke my chair. Now, are you coming?"

Eliot sighed. He did have a hard-on now – might as well do something about it. "Wouldn't want to upset Parker by blowing her off, I guess."

--

The next morning, management was surprised to find that security footage from one of the alleys near the club went fuzzy between 2:18 AM and 3:03 AM. They chalked it up to malfunctioning equipment, and made a note to buy some newer-model cameras.

--

When the very large package arrived at HQ (also known as Nate's apartment) the next day, Eliot didn't pay much attention until Hardison opened up the package to reveal a chair that was identical to the old one.

"Wait, didn't you tell me your chair was one of a kind?"

"Well, it is now," Hardison said with a slow smile. "Now that you broke the old one. I had my chair guy get me another one. Wasn't too hard."

He chuckled at his own cleverness, and didn't see Eliot's unmistakable smirk as he walked out the door.

"Okay, I'll bite," Sophie said. "What did you do to his chair?"

"What do you mean?" Eliot asked as innocently as Eliot ever could.

"Eliot …"

"Nothing serious," Eliot shrugged. "Just made a few minor adjustments. The fabric's just a little scratchier, the chair's a little too low, the cushion slightly less comfortable and …"

They all heard Hardison settle into his chair and give it a spin. The squeak was loud in the silence.

"Eliot!"


End file.
